


When We Return To Normal

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-2018 Season, 2018 NHL All-Star Weekend, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Slice of Life, Stream of Consciousness, brief mention of the vegas golden knights, the brad marchand licking incident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 18:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14575176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tyler can lie to reporters all he wants. He prefers the offseason because he gets to see his boyfriend again.





	When We Return To Normal

**Author's Note:**

> it's meant to be a short one-off, so if you're looking to get emotionally invested in something, you've come to the wrong place. in tyler's pov. sorry if it's a shitty first-person fic i haven't written fiction in literally years. also, mentions of the licking incident, as indicated by the tags.

The day Brad came home, I was sad he didn’t bring the Stanley Cup with him, but relieved to see him. The summer is the start of our more solidified time together. I know where he is, what he’s doing, how he’s feeling from the moment he wakes up. Not because he told me through text, but because he’s lying beside me in bed. We’re able to hold each other, breath in the scent of togetherness, of warmth, of _us_. There is no replacement for that during the regular season.

It’s almost there during the all-star break. The first time I get to see him is on the ice. We kiss in greeting, much to the delight of the cameras, and we catch up. We kneel next to each other in the expansive line of players, decipherable by the logos of different teams, stick brands, and flows. Black and yellow next to green and white. You’d know it was us from a mile away.

After the skills competition, it’s in the hotel that we give each other a less-rehearsed greeting. Busy hands rushing to brush off suit jackets, fingers fumbling with the knots in his tie, the fake scent of expensive but gaudy aftershave going into my eyes, my nose, my mouth. It’s not the _real_ Brad, but in a way, it’s still _him_.

Smooth fabric is exchanged for warm skin. His lips on my neck, my hands in his hair. Hearts racing at staggered beats. It’s sweaty, it’s gross, it’s in a foreign space, but it’s there. It’s to make up for all the times miles had separated us. Fucking, cuddling, and eating out. For one week.

It’s still not as genuine as the summer, no matter the temperature.

* * *

 

Genuine paradise is picking him up at the airport. Hearing his luggage slide into the trunk, the passenger side door opening to reveal him and only him. Same as always, kissing in greeting, an exaggerated sound effect to really emphasize the ~love~ going on.

“Or would you prefer I lick you?” he suggests, leaning back and slightly adjusting his seat.

I give him a light chuckle. “No, no thanks, I’m fine with kissing.”

“You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“No, why would you make me mad? I personally think it’s hilarious, that whole thing.” I indicate his face blindly with my finger.

“One thing everyone didn’t realize is it worked. You do it to get into people’s heads and _it did_ , now a joke has got the hockey police knocking at our door. Tch, can anyone have a little fun anymore?”

“Eh, we know how it works now. I honestly didn’t see it coming. You’d think the League would have higher priorities.”

“Exactly!”

* * *

 

When we get home, there’s no sex right away. It’s not like the all-star weekend. We’re not tearing off each other’s clothes and pushing and pulling. It becomes a lot more domestic. Brad changes out of his suit, and I wait for him in the kitchen. I offer him coffee, anything, he says no. I tell him I’m thinking about making dinner. I get a “don’t worry about it” in return.

It’s just us, sitting beside each other at the island. He swivels in his chair, I look at my phone. A dog trots into the room, I brush its fur with my free hand. Brad does a little cooing. I finally place my phone down, give a deep sigh, and break the silence.

“I’m sorry you lost, dude. Fucking sucks. What happened those last four games?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs. “It didn’t go downhill, we just underperformed. Or they outplayed us. I feel like every game could’ve gone either way.”

“I know how that feels,” I rest my arm on the counter, as a proposition. He understands and accepts, weaving his fingers together with mine. “But now, you rest. What time is it anyway?”

He takes my phone from its position beside my arm. “8 o’clock. Isn’t the Vegas game on?”

“Think so. Wanna watch, or are you hockeyed-out?”

My hand gets a light squeeze. “I think I can manage.”

* * *

We eventually do eat together, hibernating in the media room. Ignoring the television and facing each other, sharing food. Snide remarks. An occasional kiss. We fuck, too. I inform him that I’ve already jacked off. He doesn’t care. I don’t care, either.

It’s midnight. Vegas won and our clothes have settled on our bodies. Brad’s head is resting on my thigh. I run my hand through his hair, he presses his head into the touch.

I whisper. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

“We should go to bed.”

No matter how much I contradict myself, the offseason is the best season. There’s no risk, no anticipation. It’s when we return to normal.


End file.
